The Starting Gate Affair
by girl in the glen
Summary: Illya and Napoleon are heading for a new circle in which the winner holds the reins to victory. Story is complete.
1. Chapter 1

"You want me to do what, sir? I must have misunderstood…"

Alexander Waverly stared down the length of his unlit pipe before raising his eyes beneath nearly stationery brows to glare at the young man before him. He couldn't remember Mr. Kuryakin ever raising a question about his assignments previously. _Probably an indication of the years ahead_, he mused silently.

"You heard me, Mr. Kuryakin. And you as well, Mr. Solo. I want … it is necessary for you, Mr. Kuryakin, to lose weight for your next assignment."

The old man heaved a sigh that made the other two men in the room feel suddenly ill at ease. Why should Illya, of all people, need to lose weight?

Waverly finally handed over the two file folders he had been fingering during this preamble to business. It seemed as though the young Russian had endured quite a lot since coming to UNCLE, not that any agent was immune to peril. Still, he seemed to attract trouble that others slid past effortlessly. Sometimes Alexander wondered if there really were such a thing as bad luck. Bad business should Solo have to find out along with his partner.

"Here gentlemen, in front of you, is the background on this assignment. I suggest you study it and be prepared to meet here again in…'

Waverly looked at his watch, a mental image of the morning's activities in front of him as he calculated each appointment and how long they would take.

"… three hours. Directly after lunch. Oh, except for you, Mr. Kuryakin. Please report to Medical for a revised meal plan. You will be undergoing daily checks to ensure that you remain healthy during this process. That is all."

Neither agent was prepared to leave, yet the meeting was definitely over. Illya rose from his seat, his face slightly less expressive than usual if that was possible. Napoleon looked from the blond and back to his superior, unable to find any kind of mission that would require weight loss.

Then, all of a sudden, Napoleon turned back to Mr. Waverly, a type of indignant rage surging up from an unknown depth.

"Sir, you're not sending Illya into some kind of… camp, or…?"

Waverly looked up, stunned at the intrusion on his perusal of the next order before him.

"What? Mr. Solo, I… '

It dawned on him then, as he looked from Solo to Kuryakin, the latter a paler shade than normal as Napoleon's suggestion gained understanding.

"I assure you both, there are not any camps or experiments…' he sighed again.

"Sit down, the both of you."

Illya sucked in a breath he had held unknowingly at the thought of being subjected to… well, he couldn't or wouldn't imagine what. Napoleon felt a little sheepish now, after the fact, at having sputtered out his concerns.

"Mr. Kuryakin, let me put your mind at ease. I suppose I should apologize for not just coming to the point of this affair at the onset. You, because of your stature and … hmmm… well, you are a slightly built man compared to many here at UNCLE. You are, in fact, challenging the most minimum requirements for a field agent, something that we have accommodated because of your, shall we say, unique circumstances."

Napoleon shot a glance at his Russian partner, wondering how all of this sounded to him. They'd only been partnered for about eighteen months now, and yet their success rate had garnered quite a lot of attention around the Command. If the number of times the two of them had been shot at, tortured or generally harassed by the agents of THRUSH, then it was possible they were rather well known by some in that organization as well.

Illya held his gaze in a direct response to what Mr. Waverly was saying. He knew he was smaller than most of the men, shorter by a head than several of them. His size had never stopped him before, and apparently now it was going to be used to UNCLE's advantage.

"Sir, if I may and without reading this file just yet, what is it I am to do that will require that I weigh … even less than I currently do?"

Play Peter Pan. Napoleon caught himself thinking it, was grateful that he hadn't actually said anything. His partner looked like a teenager sitting here, and if he lost any more weight…

"You are a horseman, Mr. Kuryakin. Along with gymnastics, you also have equestrian skills that are rather advanced. Although this time, it won't be dressage that you will need, but hard-boned skill and strength to handle an animal large enough to kill you should control be lost.'

He had their attention. Kuryakin's blue eyes widened imperceptibly, something that Napoleon noted with a little satisfaction; he kept count of the times that his partner actually registered a response.

"Racing horses, Mr. Kuryakin. Thoroughbreds, to be specific about it. You and Mr. Solo are going to the races."

Napoleon slowly turned his head towards Waverly, then back again to see Illya's reaction to that last. The plot emerged suddenly.

"A jockey? You want Illya to go in as a jockey?"

Waverly grinned, that feral expression that marked him as a man of intrigue and cunning. It was an acquired expression, born of many experiences and survival of many perils.

"Yes, exactly that. Mr. Kuryakin will need to lose… oh, I'd say about fifteen pounds. Isn't that right, Mr. Kuryakin?"

Illya was calculating, remembering what he might have ever known about thoroughbred racing. Mainly what he visualized were the small stature men who populated the sport both in the United States and in Europe. He wasn't tall himself, but by most standards he would tower over the typical jockey. Still, he supposed that the only real factor was the weight.

"I would be at the top of the racing weights, sir. Twenty pounds would give me a better chance of gaining a mount, if that is indeed the object of this assignment."

Waverly was pleased. He expected nothing less from his Russian recruit than to look past the minimum requirement and make it his goal to go beyond them, to be the best.

"Yes, quite right, Mr. Kuryakin. If you were at one hundred and fifteen pounds, it would probably make you more competitive."

Napoleon was completely flabbergasted by all of this talk of Illya losing twenty pounds. What kind of lunatic could think that Illya Kuryakin capable of skipping meals?

"Sir, not to be … um… well, obtuse, but … why? I mean, what is it we're after here?"

Waverly looked at his watch again. No time for this, he needed to attend to his day.

"For that, Mr. Solo, I suggest you read the report as I had originally intended. I still expect to see you back here at… one o'clock. Have a nice lunch, gentlemen."

At this last goodbye the two agents departed. Illya was going through a list of ways in which he might lose weight and still maintain his muscle. Twenty pounds…

"Illya, how on earth… I mean… you eat more than I do and still weigh thirty pounds less. Well, around that anyway."

Illya smiled, his calculations continuing as they now included figuring out how much Napoleon weighed. Neither of them were big men, and yet they still managed to best most of the bad guys who came after them. It wasn't all about brawn, after all.

"There is nothing to be done about it, my friend. I am to lose weight, and I suppose that starts with my check-in down at Medical. Shall I meet you back here at one?"

"You're going to skip lunch? I'll go with you, tovarisch. We might as well get on the same program, at least … well, I'll check it out. I guess I could lose a couple of pounds, just to keep you company."

Illya appreciated the gesture, even as he dreaded the prospect of going without food. He had spent many years of his youth without the food necessary for proper nutrition. It had, no doubt, been a factor in his own lack of growth. This time, however, it would be by choice, more or less.

"You are a good friend, Napoleon. It isn't necessary, but I thank you for the offer of support.'

Illya stopped at the elevator, the realization now that as soon as he hit that button to the Medical floor, his life would change once again.


	2. Chapter 2

Illya had sat through the medical briefing with Napoleon at his side, like a good comrade he thought. What none of these people realized was that, until a few years ago he had weighed little more than what was being calculated for him now.

Going without food was nothing new for Illya Kuryakin, and it was only during his years in Paris and England that he had transformed his physique beyond that of a starving student. During his time in gymnastics he had weighed only one hundred and twenty pounds, and most of that had been muscle. He could do it again, he must do it again.

Napoleon had been nearly sick when shown the means by which Illya would be losing weight, and very nearly backed out of his agreement to join his partner. Perhaps being a strong support was sufficient. Illya had assured him, however, that it would be relatively painless, and that the meal replacement shakes that had been formulated for this would more than satisfy his appetite. Protein, lots of protein, that would be the catalyst for weight loss, even for someone as thin as he now was.

"Illya, I just can't imagine you without a plate of real food in front of you. How, I mean… can you really do this?"

Illya smiled his small but meaningful smile; it reminded Napoleon that his partner was a man used to deprivation, and that the Russian had incredible will power. The capacity he showed to consume large quantities of food was a response to the freedom to do so. No doubt he could control that as well as he could deny an interrogator the pleasure of answers being sought.

"It is only food, Napoleon. Could you not give up copious amounts of sex if Mr. Waverly asked it of you?"

That was unfair.

"Well now, Mr. Smarty Pants, I hardly think we can compare food to sex. One is absolutely essential."

A wink told Illya that his partner hoped to not be put in a position to find out the answer to that question.

The Canteen had already been stocked with the shakes Illya would be drinking for the next few weeks. The doctor had estimated that, considering Illya's rapid metabolism and previous low weights, he should lose as much as five pounds per week for the first two weeks, and possibly even three. After that, it was going to take careful monitoring to make certain the already slender man was healthy and still building muscle.

During the weight loss there would be regular riding exercises at the farm of one of Mr. Waverly's friends. The man raised thoroughbreds and had a full track on his property. Illya would train with one horse, and be assigned as his jockey when the next meet opened in two months. It wasn't a long time to get this all done, but time was short.

After lunch, or what passed for lunch, Illya and Napoleon made their way back up to Mr. Waverly's office. They had both read over the file during the time between Medical and the Canteen, and now the prospect of encountering the task ahead of them loomed more like a Trojan Horse than a race horse.

The agents passed the desk of Mr. Waverly's secretary, each nodding a silent greeting to the pretty brunette. She let her eyes follow them into the great man's office, admiring the view they gave her. Little did she realize that at least one of them would soon provide less of one than she now enjoyed.

Waverly was waiting for them, an unusual occurrence on any day. His attention seemed riveted on Kuryakin, and he watched him enter and take his seat. Napoleon observed his boss observing his partner and wondered why the older man had broken with his usual behavior.

"Mr. Kuryakin, your meeting went well with Dr. Howard?"

It seemed more of a statement than a question in spite of the lilt at the end of the sentence. Illya assumed there was a report on the old man's desk that conveyed every bit of information from his visit to Medical.

"Yes sir, I believe it went well. I understand the program and the necessary steps I must take to follow it. I will be going to Harewood Farms every day to work out, then report back here for check-ups every other day. I believe the plan to live out there part time is a good one, it will allow me to get a better feel for the operation, and to build a rapport with the horse I'll be working with…riding."

Illya took a breath after that lengthy response. It was uncharacteristic of him to speak for so long, and Napoleon wondered if he was, in reality, a bit concerned about this assignment.

Napoleon was just a little concerned about Illya's part in this. His own, however, suited him perfectly. The older agent would take the predictable part of a wealthy young heir to a vague financial empire. The vagueness of it was purposeful, and the hope was that he would attract some undesirable characters that just happened to be the target of this affair. With Napoleon posing as the owner of the horse and Illya as the jockey, the plan looked good on paper.

Waverly had switched his attention back to the file.

"Gentlemen, you have read the file. Do you have any questions before this begins?"

Napoleon looked at Illya, wondering if all was really well.

"Sir, there doesn't seem to be a clear indication of who it is we're expecting when this party begins. With the time allotted for preparation, Illya will be just able to ride if he hits the weight you've all projected. How do I know who to look out for?"

Illya wondered that as well. Of course, all he had to do was ride a galloping, thousand pound horse and try to avoid being knocked off and trampled by one of the other galloping, thousand pound animals. Certainly Napoleon could manage to charm some devious THRUSH into investing in the horse and rider that was backed by UNCLE. It was simple, really, and all they needed was a good story to reel in the marks.

"Mr. Solo, I have no doubt that, among all those you will meet in the circle of people who inhabit the racing world, the presence of a member of THRUSH will be very evident to you. But, as a clue, we do no know that the person of interest in this affair is, and I'd say this is lucky for us… a woman.

"Like your cover identity, this individual has inherited her wealth and, in a rather unfortunate turn of events has found herself indebted to a THRUSH endowed bank that operates on the fringe, so to speak. This woman's vulnerability has made her a bit of a patsy, I believe is the proper word here. She has made several investments for this group, lent them legitimacy if you will.'

Waverly paused to tamp his pipe and fiddle in his pocket in a quest for matches. Failing that, he continued.

"One of her personal weaknesses is horse racing… thoroughbred racing. She's looking for an investment and THRUSH are willing to back her, but for what reason we are unsure. Horse racing has always battled the naysayers and skeptics who believe that there is racketeering involved, and that the races are often fixed. We believe that THRUSH wants in, almost like the mafia infiltrated Las Vegas. Money to be made, gentlemen, from the sport of kings.'

The UNCLE chief looked at his two agents, both of whom were attentive to the narrative. Napoleon wondered what the woman looked like while Illya contemplated life without his morning donut.

"So, you see Mr. Solo, you will know her when she shows up. And, she will show up, we're making it easy for her. You will host a party and introduce your new acquisition, Dawn's Tomorrow, to a group of potential investors. Most of them will be UNCLE operatives posing as wealthy men in this social circle, a few of them legitimate businessmen. Miss Denault, Miranda Denault, will also be invited. She will, of course, attend and you will, of course, charm her until she agrees to become a part of the syndicate backing your horse. Mr. Kuryakin, playing his part, will be on hand to help persuade all of them that Dawn's Tomorrow will be worth their cash."

Illya cast a sideways glance at Napoleon and was met halfway with a similar look from his partner. Horses, money and women… It all sounded like trouble to the Russian.


	3. Chapter 3

The days turned into weeks as Illya followed the program laid out for him. He was consuming the shakes every day, three times a day, with only vegetables and fruit in between. The shakes contained the essential protein and carbohydrates necessary to keep him going, and amazingly he felt really good. His energy never waned and for the most part he wasn't hungry. Anytime he wanted to eat there were fresh vegetables for him to munch on, or fruit… lots of fruit.

The riding schedule was grueling, though. He was out at the farm by six in the morning, every morning. The early morning workouts were essential for both him and the horse, and Dawn's Tomorrow was a horse with a mission. At only two years old, he was at the beginning of his career, and if he hadn't been an impressive eighteen hands Illya would have dwarfed the grey stallion.

This morning found man and horse at the end of their fifth week together. Illya had already lost seventeen pounds, a feat that was the envy of every woman at headquarters and a few of the men as well. Napoleon was shocked at how the weight had come off of his friend, and periodically he thought him unrecognizable with the suddenly gaunt features and pronounced cheekbones. As part of the charade, Illya had started combing his hair back from his face, something that gave him a very somber look; his eyes were haunting, more deeply set than before. Napoleon hoped that Illya would gain back the weight quickly, because somehow this man just wasn't his partner.

Mr. Waverly had been driven out to Harewood Farms to witness his agent in action. His friendship with Sturgess Harewood was one of long standing and silent agreements. Sturgess had been a pilot in the war, and afterwards had turned his attention to customizing airplanes for rich industrialists and tycoons. He had amassed a sizeable fortune in the process and decided upon a thoroughbred farm as the antidote to the stress of a successful business. He turned over the day-to-day operation to his son-in-law Anthony Decker, an Englishman he had lured across the Atlantic for his superb business acumen. The consequent romance between Anthony and Sturgess's daughter Suzanne was an unexpected bonus, and had allowed the older man the luxury of retiring to his horse farm. And this is where he conspired periodically with Alexander Waverly, as he was doing now.

There was a long porch that ran the length of the house, and the two wizened old men sat there now in oversized wooden rockers that were flanked by potted palms and a dedicated staff. Sturgess signaled to one of the men for fresh coffee, and whatever fresh pastries had been baked this morning.

"Alexander, you must have some of this… '

Sturgess looked at the young man who had delivered the plump sweet rolls.

"Daryl, what are these again?"

Daryl, in his most urbane imitation of an apprentice to greatness, replied in a conspiratorial tone.

"Cinnamon rolls, sir. Mrs. Cocker has baked them fresh for you and your guest just this morning."

"Ah, yes… cinnamon rolls, Alexander. Please, have one."

And with that a china plate was set upon the table that was situated between Harewood and Waverly, and the men got down to their reason for being there on that great, long porch.

The air was crisp and heralded the onset of Autumn. The early mornings here had a feel that was lost on the concrete and asphalt of the city, and Waverly breathed in a little of the air, rare in more ways than one.

"How's he doing, Sturgess? Mr. Kuryakin, that is, how is he progressing?"

Sturgess Harewood had been around horses all of his life, had loved them that long. When he saw that same affinity for the animals he raised it buoyed his hopes. He wanted to raise a champion, desired to know the thrill of a horse that could take on the competition and win against all odds. He had seen the great Seabiscuit run once, as a youth. It was a memory he knew would remain with him until his dying day.

"Your Mr. Kuryakin is a good rider, talented even. His height is, of course, unusual for the sport, but he's slender. Damn it, Alexander, you've nearly starved him into a waif for this mission. Is it worth it, putting him through this?"

Alexander Waverly nodded slowly, his eyes never leaving the young man on horseback as he put the grey horse through his paces. Illya Kuryakin was talented at many things, and it had been a stroke of luck to find he had yet one more useful skill to place at UNCLE's disposal.

"Yes, Sturgess, it is all worth it."

The other man followed the gaze of his friend, watched Illya stand up in the stirrups and assume the familiar posture of a jockey as Dawn's Tomorrow broke into a gallop. Within a few seconds they were out of sight of the two old men as horse and man disappeared behind a stand of trees that lined the drive leading up to the house.

"It is imperative that he post times that will garner enough interest to warrant investment. We must have that syndicate of investors to work with. You're certain that no one will discover…"

Sturgess broke in, his mind already following Waverly's train of thought.

"The records show that your man Solo has purchased the horse from me when he was a yearling. It's all completely proper and binding, no one will know that it was only just transacted. The rules are strict, Alexander, and I can't be found to be violating them. You must make certain of that."

"Indeed, Sturgess. It will all be perfectly legal and no one will ever know that you are cooperating with UNCLE in this. The horse, Dawn's Tomorrow, he's as good as the profile you created?"

Harewood laughed at the absurdity of his horse not being worth all of the enthusiasm that his animal deserved.

"Yes, Alexander. And if your man can ride him the way he's looking to me, then we might actually win that race in October."

Two identical grins emerged in the shadows on that long porch.

As Illya let Dawn's Tomorrow run full out on the track, he was concentrating on holding his own with the monolith. It was grueling to sit atop a horse like this, and perched as he was his legs would be aching by the end of the ride. He was almost too tall to do this without great risk, but the exhilaration of it was addicting to the Russian, and he knew that the longer he stayed here, the greater the desire to get on the real racetrack and win aboard this gallant horse.

As they passed the last quarter mile post Illya could sense Dawn's Tomorrow getting ready to surge forward. That was his pattern; the big grey would lay up for the first part of the circuit and then, with the finish line in sight, he would gather all of his speed into one spectacular burst. The small amount of experience Tom, as he was called, had on the track had inspired this tactic and, although he had never won a race yet, it seemed like a good strategy to the man riding.

"Go, Tom! Bystryee… faster!"

The big grey dug in and both horse and rider sailed across the imaginary finish to the roar of an invisible crowd that rewarded the pair with silent cheers.


	4. Chapter 4

Napoleon Solo hadn't always been a covert agent, but he had always had an element of subterfuge in his life. The stint in Korea had perhaps been the most real thing he had ever done; there was no room for anything but reality there, no matter how much he and his fellow soldiers had wished to be elsewhere. Clara had been real, but his feelings were not intense enough to subvert his devotion to UNCLE.

So it was that now, in his late twenties, he was already an expert at playing a part, and the one he assumed now fit him perfectly. As Worthington Pike he was not only wealthy, but a war hero who had survived the horror of Korea. Posing as an heir to an obscure fortune, it was part of his cover to exploit his war experiences and garner the admiration of a social circle not always easily penetrated by unknown outsiders.

The first order of business was to establish himself with a lavish party at which he would introduce his newest venture: Dawn's Tomorrow. Illya would of course appear, hopefully to charm some of the guests out of their money with his (now) huge blue eyes and stories of escaping the Nazis and the Communists in order to follow his dream of riding for a living. Napoleon wondered how many would actually believe this fairytale, but he wasn't betting against his younger partner. If any women showed up with money to burn they would most likely fall prey to the beguiling innocence of the Russian.

The main target of this play was the THRUSH pawn Miranda Denault.

The poor woman seemed to have gotten herself into this particular mess by losing money on horses, and in spite of her past had announced her intention to invest in a race horse. THRUSH, it seemed, had lent her money to cover her gambling debts when her father cut her off from the trust she was going through in record speed. When she was offered a way out by accepting this loan with just a few conditions, Miranda jumped on it.

What THRUSH hoped to gain from this had been a point of some curiosity to the UNCLE personnel who watched such things. When it was noticed that several other people with similar social ties had shown up on the radar as 'clients' of this financial entity, the alarms had sounded and Section I had been informed. It appeared that THRUSH was intending to invade the world of thoroughbred racing in what would look like legitimate financial dealings with people from the right social circles. It was, however, an insider's position that the hierarchy was hoping to gain in order to subvert the honest earnings of the sport and funnel them into THRUSH's coffers.

As Napoleon mused on the details, he was familiarizing himself with the house that had been provided for his new identity. Located on Long Island and fitted out with all of the amenities necessary for wowing his new friends, the handsome agent complimented himself on how well he fit into this new environment. Conversely, he thought of his partner and the nights he was spending sleeping on a cot in the tack room next to the stables at Harewood Farms.

The doorbell interrupted Napoleon's comparison of fortunes, and he hurried to find out if news of his arrival had piqued someone's interest prematurely. Instead of a new friend he was surprised to see his old one, his partner, standing at the door in his loose fitting clothes; a reminder to the slightly older man of the weight Illya had lost for this assignment.

"Illya, what are you doing here? Come on in, check out my…"

Something was wrong, it showed in Illya's posture and the look in his eyes.

"No, Napoleon I am not here to take a tour. Something has happened that needs attention. I believe that someone has shown up who might be able to recognize me."

That was enough to get Napoleon's attention centered on his partner.

"Who? Is it someone at Harewood's, one of the staff…?"

Illya shook his head, a motion that caused his hair to fall back into its normal shape rather than remain swept back off his forehead.

"No, he's an associate of Mr. Harewood's son-in-law. I don't think Anthony is aware of the man's ties to THRUSH, rather this individual has managed to infiltrate Sturgess' company somehow. I don't know how it all goes together, but somehow…'

Illya stopped, his eyes reflecting the concern with this new development.

"I ran across this fellow in England, when I was with the London office. He's rather well placed in regards to his family and station, something that puts him within easy reach of the people THRUSH are looking to mingle with here."

Napoleon grabbed Illya by the arm and led him from the entry and into a room, a study, and motioned for him to sit down. The chair enveloped him obligingly as the Russian took his seat, suddenly weary as he sank into the down filled cushions within the glove soft leather.

"You look tired, Illya. Are you hungry? I can get you something to eat if you like."

The wan looking young man would have loved to sit down to a meal without concern for his weight. He wondered briefly if it would matter if just once, just tonight…

"I had better not, but thank you. I am still a pound away from the weight I agreed to, although I'm beginning to think that my body won't accommodate it. I seem to have reached the limit, something that may impede this entire operation."

Napoleon was concerned about all of this, his partner's weight and now the fact that someone from Illya's past might put him in danger.

"Do you think this person…'

Illya interjected…

"Parker. Ian Parker. I don't think he did, not today. But, he did see me and… I think it's only a matter of time if he starts thinking about it."

Illya let his head fall back onto the chair as he closed his eyes. He was tired today; he had been up since five A.M. and had neglected to eat anything before the workout with Dawn's Tomorrow. After speaking with Mr. Waverly and Harewood, Illya had ridden back to the stables where he let one of the hands take care of Tom while he headed to his cot and a nap. That was interrupted when Anthony Decker and Ian Parker showed up. Decker was showing off the stables and its tenants to his acquaintance, and was pleased to include Illya in the tour.

"How do you know him, Illya? How is he related to THRUSH?"

Illya was aware of his stomach growling and his eyes needing sleep. This chair was making it very difficult to stay awake, but necessity beckoned to the conscientious agent.

"I had occasion to do some surveillance on him. He was involved with an import business that was a THRUSH front, and to which he was paying large sums of money for merchandise that had been stolen from a legitimate museum in Italy."

Just then the phone rang, and Napoleon reached across the desk to answer it. As he answered a few questions from one of the people on his guest list, Illya laid his head back again and drifted off to sleep. It was a few minutes before Napoleon extricated himself from the conversation, only to find his friend snoozing contentedly.

Napoleon decided against waking him and instead headed for the kitchen intending to prepare a light meal for the both of them. Illya wouldn't turn down something like crab cakes and salad, and with all of the ingredients at his fingertips, Mr. Solo set to work.

Illya awoke more hungry than before, and was delighted to smell the aromas wafting in from the kitchen. This house was just large enough to impress people, but designed so that the kitchen was accessible from the room he was currently in. Having entered this room from the foyer, which was the central access to the other rooms on this floor, the kitchen was just beyond and bordered on the other side by an informal breakfast room. The dining room was at the end of the main hall, connecting the two sides of the house like the end of a U shape and also available from the kitchen's other doorway.

Illya pulled himself up from the chair and made his way through the small passageway and into the kitchen, where he found his friend busily plating up his culinary creation. Napoleon had a tea towel thrown over one shoulder, handy for wiping away food stuffs and whatever else needed cleaning away. Illya was humored by the sight of his normally meticulous partner scurrying around in the kitchen, his hair furiously fighting its way onto the wide forehead as Napoleon made his way from oven to sink to refrigerator… it was quite something, really.

"It smells really good, Napoleon. What have you made?"

The brown haired young man paused to answer and then motioned with his head for Illya to pick up the plates and follow him to the table that was located in front of the large bay window. The banquette style seating was in the formation of the windows, and the oak table situated perfectly for casual dining such as this.

"Grab those, will ya… I've got the drinks."

Illya obeyed, his stomach leaping for joy at the prospect of a meal that wasn't built around raw vegetables and proteinized powder.

Napoleon had a sudden rush of pity and guilt that was all bundled together with the sight of his thin partner. Illya was slender by nature, but this… Napoleon was certain that if his shirt were removed, Illya's ribs would be pronounced beneath only muscle and skin. There wasn't an ounce of fat on the man, and that suddenly seemed like a bad idea. The two men made it to the table and slid into the banquette.

"Here, you need to eat. I can't believe you've lost all of that weight."

Illya wondered if Napoleon had ever been hungry… truly, agonizingly hungry with no prospect of a meal.

"You know, I was this thin for much of my life. It was only the sumptuous meals I encountered in Paris and then London that put the extra pounds on my body. Honestly…'

He didn't continue. There was no point in going over the past, in highlighting what had been so difficult.

"Thank you for this, Napoleon. I will need to work it off later, perhaps, but for now… bon appetit."

Illya was grateful; to his friend and to the crab that gave up his life for this meal.


	5. Chapter 5

As Illya drove back to Harewood Farms, he reflected on the evening he had spent with his friend and partner. Napoleon had been given the role of a player once again, and Illya that of the perennial worker bee. It was usually this way; the need for a suave and sophisticated agent often meant that Napoleon was called in. Illya wondered what it was that made him decidedly not fit for those parts.

"You are a Bolshevik at heart, Illya Nickovetch Kuryakin."

He mused to himself about origins and fate, and then imagined a scene in which he rode Dawn's Tomorrow into Napoleon's party in a display of Soviet pique at the outlandish display of bourgeois decadence gone wild.

The blond smiled at that, reveled slightly in the notion that he could pull it off somehow. As he was reviewing the scene once more Illya pulled through the gate and onto Harewood's property. The long drive meandered through a stand of trees that stood atop a bank hanging precariously above a now full creek. As Illya reached the turn that would take him to the stables, someone was crawling out of the darkness and onto the narrow road.

Illya put on the brakes and lurched to a sudden stop, not completely confident that he hadn't run over who ever was in the road. Jumping out of the car, it took mere seconds before the truth of the situation was apparent to the would-be Good Samaritan.

Two men rushed Illya just as he realized that the man in the road was not injured at all. With as much defiance as was physically possible, the Russian thrashed and delayed the inevitable with less finesse than he would have liked. Three to one was not good odds, and in spite of being truly fit, their bulk alone made it a foregone conclusion as to who would be, finally, the victim.

Crushing blows were landed on the smaller man, especially around the ribcage. Illya felt himself drifting away from the pain, darkness invading the night that was itself nearly bereft of stars and moonlight.

After an exhibition of brutality, the three thugs determined that the jockey was damaged enough and carried him into the woods, rolled him down the shallow bank and into the little creek; no one expected to see the blond on a horse again, if at all.

Illya landed on his back in a portion of the creek that was raised above the flow of water. Fortuitous could have been used to describe this circumstance, although it might have been slightly more optimistic than it felt. The pain was intense, and Illya was fairly certain that at least one rib was broken. He managed to gain control of his right arm and willed it to go in search of his communicator. Amazingly, his attackers had not taken it from him.

With waves of pain coursing through his arm, Illya located the tin box and managed to remove it from the pocket of his jeans and brought it up as near to his mouth as he was able.

"Open… channel…"

But that was as much as he managed before passing out.

Napoleon was settling in for the evening, his satisfaction in having fed his waif-like friend a preliminary to the glass of Kentucky bourbon he had poured for himself. It made him hesitate only slightly when he thought of Illya heading back to the stables and dramatically less than opulent conditions. Living the life of a jockey had to be better than what the Russian was experiencing.

Tomorrow night the party at the center of this affair was scheduled to light up the night. Miss Denault would be here, as would several other rich women alongside their equally prosperous husbands. THRUSH was backing Miranda Denault financially, although they had no intention of actually letting her keep anything purchased with the Hierarchy's money.

Waverly had not divulged all of his plan to his agents. He determined to have as few possible problems as he could manage. The point of this little game UNCLE was playing was to create a syndicate of investors who wanted to be part owners of Dawn's Tomorrow. It was a common practice, and the investments were rewarded according to the wins and subsequent breeding of a stallion. UNCLE hoped to get THRUSH to tie up enough money in this venture to cripple them in some of their other endeavors. More than the money, however, was the person that Waverly was hoping to tie up with this gambit. Waverly had put this venture out like bait, and he believed that it was working, would work, and that they would have this man very soon.

If all things worked as Waverly hoped, the man he sought would step out of the shadows in order to back up Miss Denault's bid to be a part of the syndicate. This individual had vexed Waverly for years, had been part of an operation in England in which large amounts of money had been brought into the country illegally, under the guise of imports.

Getting the mark here had required great amounts of deception, purposefully placed misinformation and the sureness of the man's greed. If Waverly could get him to show up and bid on the syndicate, then he would have him. He just needed the man to show his face.

It was risky, to be sure, and part of the strategy involved the race in which Illya was to ride on Sunday, and hopefully win. Waverly was asking a lot of the Russian, but then he expected a lot from his operatives.

As Waverly reflected on the likelihood of success in this affair, Napoleon wondered about having the kind of money that would allow a person to sink thousands into a racehorse, all in the hopes of winning a few races and then, sending the poor animal off to breed. Well, maybe not such a bad life…

As he mussed on the subject of good fortune, Napoleon was dismayed slightly at the sound of his own communicator.

"Solo here."

"Mr. Solo, is Mr. Kuryakin with you?"

Alexander Waverly's voice had the edge of concern that rarely showed in his dealings with agents.

"Uh, no sir. Illya… Mr. Kuryakin left here about an hour ago. I expect he's nearing Haregate Farms by now… Is there something wrong, sir?"

The pause on the other side of this technology gave Napoleon a bad feeling.

"Mr. Kuryakin opened a transmission about ten minutes ago, but stopped in mid sentence. The communicator is still open, and it sounds rather, to my ear and that of Mullins in communications, like running water…outdoors."

Napoleon immediately thought of the conversation with Illya, of the man he had recognized as a THRUSH operative. Parker…

"Sir, Illya recognized a man at Harewood today, an Ian Parker. He was touring the stables with Anthony Decker. Illya… Mr. Kuryakin didn't think he recognized him, or that Anthony knows about THRUSH, but still… "

"Yes, yes quite so. It is cause for some concern, and now Mr. Kuryakin is not answering, has seemingly dropped off and… "

Waverly stopped, dismayed at the idea now that Kuryakin was in a body of water, possibly already drowned.

"I suggest you get out to Harewood Farms immediately, Mr. Solo. I will have Sturgess send someone to look for Mr. Kuryakin as well."

"Sir, could we not use a helicopter…"

"I am sorry, Mr. Solo, but in light of the mission, we should not let on that UNCLE is involved. If Mr. Kuryakin is… if he is not injured or… worse… Well, you understand."

Napoleon didn't understand, not enough to forfeit Illya's life in order to save the illusion of whatever it was they were trying to accomplish.

"Yes, of course sir. I'm leaving now, I'll report in as soon as I get on the scene. Solo out."

Ian Parker. Waverly hadn't expected him to show up at Sturgess' farm, not in company with Anthony Decker. And now Kuryakin was in danger, possibly dead. No, this was not going as he had planned.

Napoleon had been on the move as soon as he realized that Illya was probably in danger. From Long Island to Harewood's place was an hour drive at the very least. He hoped it wouldn't be too late when he finally arrived there.

Sturgess Harewood had immediately sent out two of his men in search of Illya at Waverly's call. He liked the young man with the odd accent and piercing blue eyes. He was intelligent, and Harewood wondered at him playing this part; according to Alexander, Kuryakin had an advanced degree in physics. It just didn't make sense, and now this mysterious disappearance.

What was perhaps even more concerning to Sturgess Harewood was the possibility that his own son-in-law had somehow, either knowingly or not, brought this on through his association with the Englishman, Parker. First thing in the morning there would be some inquiries made.

Illya was lying on something like a sandbar, although it was smaller and in a creek rather than a river. It was due entirely to his assailant's lack of familiarity with this property and the creek itself that had produced this seemingly good luck for the Russian. Had it been daylight rather than a cloudy night, he would have been face down in the running water.

Sturgess' two men found the spot. The car had been left in the road, the door still open. Apparently, whoever had jumped Illya felt no need to hide anything. They must have been confident in the permanence of his silence.

Daryl, the young man who had served sweet rolls to Waverly and Harewood, was with another employee from the farm. Moving away from the car, they turned on powerful flashlights and began to search through the trees. Going in a straight line from the car, they soon saw what appeared to be a body lying in the creek.

Quickly and efficiently the two lifted the injured man and hauled him up to the road where they laid him into the back of the truck they had driven. Daryl hopped in next to Illya and motioned for the other man, Michael, to go. Neither man had asked why or how regarding this incident, they had merely obeyed when ordered to go find the jockey. Both of them now wondered why anyone would want to beat up a jockey, and both just as quickly realized that, considering the stakes, someone wanted Dawn's Tomorrow at a disadvantage.

Without a doubt, losing his regular jockey would accomplish just that.


	6. Chapter 6

By the time Napoleon arrived at Harewood Farms he had been informed that Sturgess Harewood's personal physician was attending to Illya. The worried agent was escorted upstairs to an opulent bedroom suite normally reserved for notable guests and family. Sturgess was shocked when his two men brought the slight Russian in from the truck, sorry that the attack had taken place on his property. He was adamant that the man would be cared for properly, not relegated to the stables and his small room there.

Upon entering the house, Napoleon had taken note of the marble floors in the entry and the richly textured furnishings beyond. In spite of its country setting, this house was a reflection of great wealth and refined tastes.

A wide stairway to the left side of the foyer was indicated, and Napoleon ascended with a mixture of awe and trepidation. He didn't know the extent of Illya's injuries, and he feared the worst.

Napoleon broached the doorway cautiously, his concern waging a war with his outrage that his friend was possibly laying there because of the THRUSH he had spotted earlier in the day. Illya hadn't thought he was recognized, and yet there was no other explanation for this attack.

The agent addressed Harewood with as much control as he could muster.

"Sturgess, I came as soon as I got word. How is my jockey?"

Harewood understood that the ruse was still on, just in case there was a leak somewhere here in his own home.

"Ah, Worthington, I'm glad you're here. I'm afraid Kuryakin is rather the worse for this unpleasantness. My men found him in the creek that runs alongside the drive onto the farm, seems he was ambushed and beaten. Rather severely. My physician is in with him now… he's in good hands."

Harewood's voice was full of sympathy as he considered the anxiety in the younger man's eyes. Even these worldly men who fought a hidden war were prone to the same human emotions everyone faced. It was evident to Sturgess that Solo was concerned about his partner.

Napoleon sensed the compassion, was glad for it in any case. Not that it would help Illya, but it did soothe his own emotions somewhat.

"Thank you, for your kindness and help in this matter…'

Napoleon heaved a sigh that betrayed his concerns and, if he could admit it, his fears.

"Do you have any idea who did this to Illya? I understand you had some visitors out here today, perhaps one of them…"

Harewood understood who was meant by that, and his own investigation into Anthony Decker's involvement with Ian Parker was already underway. Alexander Waverly had notified him of Parker's association with THRUSH as soon as he had heard from Solo. All avenues were open, it seemed, and information was beginning to flow.

What good was all of this money if you couldn't buy information, the most desirable commodity in the world?

The door to the bedroom opened and the doctor emerged, his face not betraying anything to the men who waited for his report.

"Worthington, this is Dr. Arnold Fitzgerald, Dr. Fitzgerald, Worthington Pike. He is your patient's employer."

Dr. Fitzgerald nodded and extended his hand to Napoleon, or Pike, as he would know him for now. Napoleon wanted to hear the news, needed to know how Illya was.

"Doctor, is he …'

Nodding towards the bed in the interior room…

"… going to be all right? Is there any serious damage?"

The physician eyed the dark haired younger man in a way that made Napoleon feel like he had done something wrong. He caught himself looking down, hoping he hadn't left his trousers unzipped.

"Do you mean to ask if he can still ride? That young man is so thin, so incredibly… '

Fitzgerald stopped, gathered his self-control and set aside his dislike for the rules of thoroughbred racing.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to bite your head off. He will mend, but I don't recommend that he get on a horse for a week or two. Give the young man some hearty meals and let him heal up."

Napoleon was only mildly surprised by the other man's reaction, it was a little like his own when looking at Illya these days.

"No offense, doctor. In my defense, I did feed him tonight… crab cakes. He ate four."

Fitzgerald smiled, relaxed a little under the engaging demeanor of Worthington Pike. Perhaps the situation wasn't as bad as he has surmised. After all, Sturgess Harewood was a decent man, a friend actually. It was just that…

"These young men are so emaciated, especially the tall ones like Mr. Kuryakin in there. He's too tall for this sport, and his weight is dangerously low. He must really love horses to be putting himself through this."

Napoleon knew it wasn't for the love of horses, but didn't offer the doctor the truth.

Sturgess was taking all of this in, wishing that there was less intrigue in life, and certainly now that his son-in-law was being implicated as possibly a THRUSH contact. That just wouldn't do.

"Arnold, thank you for coming out tonight. I know it was not a convenient trip for you, but as you can see, this young man needed attention and, well, we didn't want to have to drive him into the city. I hope you understand how much I, rather we…'

Harewood nodded towards Napoleon.

"We are very grateful for your attention and care in this matter. And, Arnold, we would also appreciate it if this remains among just us. Trespassers onto my property attacked the poor boy, and I'm investigating the circumstances. It is better if word doesn't get out about the details… you understand."

Fitzgerald nodded his agreement. Blast it all, what could that young man be involved in that would land him in bed looking like that?

"Whatever you say, Sturgess. I'll be back tomorrow to check on him. Keep him in bed, please, at least for the next twenty-four hours or so. He really does need to rest.'

The doctor turned to go, but as he approached the outer door of the suite he called over his shoulder…

"And feed him, for god's sake."

Napoleon and Harewood were left standing, staring after the doctor and his instructions, the younger man debating with himself over whether or not to go and check on his partner, see for himself how much damage had been done.

He didn't have a chance to make a decision. The double doors to the bedroom opened and Illya hobbled into the room, his bare torso wrapped in a wide bandage to hold his ribs in place. There were bruises beginning to color up his face and chest, and his left eye was swollen shut. The fact that the blond was thinner than normal made Napoleon wince at the sight of his partner, a reaction that was no lost on Sturgess.

"Illya, what are you doing out of bed? The doctor said…"

Illya tried to emit a derisive snort, but the action caused pain and instead he sucked in a breath to stop the catch in his damaged ribs.

"I do not intend to stay in bed. What I want is to go out and find the thugs who did this, and I think we can start by locating Ian Parker."

Sturgess shook his head, amazed at the apparent resilience of the young man who had been brought in here almost in pieces.

"Illya, please go back to bed. Arnold will have my head if he checks in on you tomorrow and finds that I've let you out of the house. For my sake, son, please get some rest."

Harewood's expression showed that he was sincerely concerned, and Napoleon was likewise determined that Illya wasn't going anywhere. He definitely was not going out looking for Ian Parker.

Illya, for his part, suddenly felt light headed, enough so that he reckoned that bed was probably a better idea than a manhunt. At least for now.

Tomorrow would be an altogether different story.


	7. Chapter 7

For Illya, tomorrow came a little too soon. His head ached and his ribs felt as though he'd been trampled by one of the horses in Harewood's stables.

"Chyort!"

Napoleon heard the exclamation from the sitting room adjacent to the bedroom. A smile escaped from the somber face, his concerns slightly softened by the obvious strength of his friend's complaint.

"Ah, feeling better then, are we?"

Illya scowled at his partner as Napoleon entered the room. The blond was attempting to get out of the overly large bed, and scooting to the edge of it was painful at best, aside from the obvious difficulty of maneuvering with broken ribs and an otherwise battered body.

"Help me get out of this monstrosity, will you please. Napoleon!"

Illya yelled that last, the look on his friend's face irritating from the Russian's vantage point.

"Oh, sorry pal. I guess you jockey types always need a hand up and, in some cases, a hand down as well."

Now Napoleon was smiling broadly, the sight of Illya struggling in a bed seemingly made for a fairy tale was amusing and, somehow in this case, comforting. Illya was going to be all right.

"Where are my clothes? I need to get dressed, I can't stay in here all day doing nothing. We need to find Parker."

The day hadn't dawned without that goal in the Russian's mind. He was certain that Ian Parker had engineered the attack on him, and the agenda today included bringing in that THRUSH hoodlum and tethering him to an instrument of torture. Anything would do so long as pain could be inflicted.

"What's the real story on this guy, Illya? You seem to have a particularly vengeful appetite concerning Parker."

The blond let his eyes follow the details of the room, taking in the smooth walls and the damask covered chairs flanking a Palladian window swathed in russet colored silk. The opulence of the room was suffocating to the minimalist tastes of the Russian agent, and the subject matter of Ian Parker nearly the same.

"He knows me, Napoleon. I suppose I did more than surveillance two years ago in London. He managed to infiltrate a group of importers and convinced them to accept shipments that he refused to describe beyond the promise of easy wealth. Those men obliged, and were killed for their trouble. Parker had money stuffed into cheap porcelain knock-offs of some Japanese artifacts. The pottery he used was subsequently smashed and the money collected by THRUSH for use in their ongoing efforts.'

Illya took a breath, heaving a little as he winced at the pain in his ribs.

"Parker was never charged with the crimes, and Scotland Yard erroneously held the importers for the crimes. The money was never recovered, of course, and the three men who owned the import company were mysteriously killed in a car accident on their way to court for arraignment. Ian Parker had disappeared by that time, and UNCLE has been looking for him ever since, according to Mr. Waverly."

Napoleon's brow creased in concentration as he tried to follow Illya's story. Something was missing…

"And yes, in the process I failed to pinpoint the shipment and let myself be seen by Parker. It was brief, but he did see me as I was posing as a worker in the warehouse. I was called upon to open a crate, and although I did not look directly at Parker...

Illya was walking towards a sofa as he told this story, followed closely by Napoleon. The injured man slumped into the plump cushions, pausing in his narrative as he regained his breath.

"I suppose he did recognize me yesterday in the stables, but I was hopeful that I looked different enough to keep his curiosity at bay."

Napoleon settled himself into a chair opposite to where Illya was seated. If Parker knew that Illya was an UNCLE agent, then he would also know that the syndicate, the race… everything they were doing, was also related to UNCLE and therefore…

"He won't take the bait, will he?"

Illya shook his head, a motion that caused his hair to fall forward and frame his face in a familiar fashion. It also brought a sharp pain, eliciting a muffled moan of discomfort.

"Illya, you don't need to go to the stables today. I have a party to put on tonight, and I want you there. We need to proceed as though everything is as it should be.'

Illya looked quizzically at his partner, wondering how they could still manage to pull this off in light of Parker's appearance and, well the beating he had taken last night.

"Look, I know it's a long shot, but we must salvage this mission. The race is still on, that is if you think you can ride."

The blond nodded, his mind racing as he considered the disadvantage with which he would be working.

"I can ride. It may hurt a little, but I can do it."

Napoleon never doubted it. Illya was nothing if not nearly unstoppable.

"Okay, so we move forward as planned. We still have Miss Denault to consider, and she is determined to get in on this syndicate we're assembling. THRUSH may not be completely aligned with Parker, but they are backing our little lady, and hopefully, for us, she will be Lady Luck."

The two friends smiled conspiratorially, their dependence on luck second only to their ability to produce results out of near disasters.

~~~~~:

By late afternoon, UNCLE staffers had assembled at Napoleon's Long Island 'home', converting it into a spectacular setting for the party. Photographs of Dawn's Tomorrow were strategically placed, some portraits of the horse and others with Illya aboard in the red and white silks of Harewood Farms.

UNCLE's catering company, often called in for events such as this one, had been busy producing an array of canapés and desserts that would be accompanied by a variety of wines, all carefully paired by a sommelier from Alexander Waverly's own employ. A rich and cloyingly sweet dessert wine would be served last of all, signaling the end of the evening's events and the final opportunity to invest in the handsome grey around whom the evening was designed.

Illya had remained in his retreat all day long, taking only one late break to go and visit Tom. The two of them had become fast friends during Illya's time at the farm, and in spite of the spartan living conditions, there was something about the simplicity of it that appealed to the young man. Perhaps it was the sense of being free from the life he lived as an UNCLE agent, or going farther back how different it was from his life in the Soviet Union.

Everything seemed distant now, and when he rode the big grey, nothing mattered except for the sound of hooves pounding and dirt being splayed out in all directions. As the scenery whizzed past him, Illya felt a buoyancy that defied gravity; it was as close to flying as he needed to get in this lifetime.

Napoleon was splendidly attired in a midnight blue tuxedo that defied tradition while pointing to his own unique sense of style. The team of seamstresses employed by Del Floria's had made the evening attire for him. Even an UNCLE front had to function as a real business, and the talented hands that dressed Mr. Solo could be proud of their work.

A Section III agent was serving as butler to the handsome resident of this sumptuous home, and as the clock struck eight he began ushering in the guests who were arriving. The evening was formal and the assembly created an elegant backdrop for the main event; a large screen was situated at the far end of the formal living area.

The room was thirty feet long and twenty feet wide, expansive by any standard. Surrounding the screen were the photographs of Dawn's Tomorrow and flyers with statistics on the elegant grey thoroughbred. At exactly 9:30 a film would be shown that highlighted Tom's workouts, with scenes of him posing for the camera or playing with grooms and, most notably, with Illya.

Illya was another highlight of the evening. Although a jockey would not normally attract as much attention as the horse, his exotic background and obvious good looks had generated a bit of a buzz among those who had casually dropped in at Harewood Farms. The invitation to join this syndicate had been well received, mostly in deference to the reputation of Sturgess Harewood. Having gone on record as selling his prized young stallion to Worthington Pike, more curiosity was circling the mysterious young heir to a fortune no one had heard of previously.

There was one person in particular for whom Napoleon was waiting rather anxiously. Miranda Denault would be arriving with an entourage of THRUSH, he was certain of it. Hopefully he was not so well known that his cover would be blown, although with last night's incident, nothing was guaranteed. Without knowing for certain that Ian Parker had engineered the attack, or even if he was in league currently with THRUSH made the evening abound with more questions that answers.

It had taken Illya longer than normal to dress, and trying to hide a black eye had proven impossible. He finally donned some dark glasses that Harewood lent to him as a last resort. Mysterious and good looking, thought the older gentleman; definitely a plus when trying to attract money.

These two traveled together in Sturgess' new Jaguar XK-E roadster, a red beauty that Illya longed to drive himself. They left the farm behind, each dressed in elegant and expensive tuxedos, and content to let their hair fly in the wind created by the low windshield. It was almost as satisfying as being atop Dawn's Tomorrow, but not quite, Illya reflected. He realized that he was looking forward to riding in the race on Sunday as much as he feared it. He understood the dangers inherent in thoroughbred racing, but felt confident that he and Tom were a good pair, capable and ready for the challenge.

When Harewood and Kuryakin arrived at the Long Island house, it was to a festive and enthusiastic welcome. Napoleon was holding his own amidst a sea of admiring females and their wary companions while the staff continued to circulate, nodding knowingly to those who were UNCLE people, taking note of others who might be THRUSH.

Miranda Denault had arrived with two men who were undoubtedly operatives of the hierarchy, although they were not betrayed by anything in particular. It was through a series of covertly obtained photographs that their profiles were retrieved and confirmed by Waverly himself as he sat imperiously in his office, constant and patient as he waited for the evening to end, and for reports to be made.

Napoleon made his way over to Illya and then escorted him to meet Miss Denault. She had requested specifically to meet the jockey who would be riding the horse she was being asked to help finance.

"Miss Denault, this is Illya Kuryakin. Mr. Kuryakin, Miss Denault is considering investing in our little endeavor, hopefully before the race on Sunday."

Illya bowed and kissed the proffered hand of the attractive blonde woman. She was tall and slender, dressed in red satin that reminded the Russian of the car he had arrived in; he imagined she was similarly built for speed and excitement. He also imagined that those attributes had landed her in the position she now occupied, beholden to THRUSH and firmly in their power. He had a sudden and unwelcome urge to protect her, something he subdued immediately as he looked into her eyes.

Her eyes were cold and penetrating, and Illya now realized that she would stop at nothing to gain an advantage, and wondered briefly if she had been involved with the three thugs who had beaten him and thrown him into the creek.

"Miss Denault, it is a pleasure to meet you."

She purred as she sought to look behind the dark glasses. Someone had told her about the man's vivid blue eyes, and she longed to look directly into them. So much was revealed in a person's eyes.

"Mr. Kuryakin, are you going to keep us all guessing about the color of your eyes tonight. I hope you don't plan on wearing those dark glasses all evening."

The smile was intoxicating, and Napoleon wondered briefly if this affair needed some truly undercover activity. He chastised himself mildly for the diverting images.

"Ah, but that is part of Mr. Kuryakin's charm, don't you think? Perhaps on Sunday he will allow you to look into his eyes as you congratulate him on the win. What do you say, IK?"

Illya's facial expression never changed, his cool demeanor creating more intrigue as others began to gather around the mysterious Russian ex-patriot. Napoleon was surprised that the FBI hadn't shown up, considering the buzz going around about this event.

It was nearing nine-thirty, and Napoleon signaled for the room to quiet down and watch his little film. Another Section III agent was functioning as projectionist for this part of the evening, and Napoleon gave him the cue to dim the lights and start the entertainment.

The film opened with a dark grey foal as he ran across a verdant green pasture. All legs and dark grey spotted coat, there was effervescence about the little horse than instantly engaged the crowd. Dawn's Tomorrow grew up before this room of people, and in the process another character was introduced as Illya became a part of the film. He was shown riding in one sequence, then smiling shyly as he attempted to escape from the camera. This seemed to produce a silent sigh from most of the females in the room, something that Napoleon noted with a measure of disbelief and curiosity.

By the time the film came to its end, conversation started up again and several people converged upon Napoleon to offer their pledges of participation in the proposed syndicate. The number hoped for was in excess of two million dollars, not a lot considering the expenses involved in training and transporting a horse of Tom's purported stature and, hopefully, future winnings. Napoleon took to this like a veteran while Illya watched, his eyes canvassing the room in hopes of identifying the enemies that certainly lurked there.

While he was cloistered behind an Eames lounge chair and ottoman (something Napoleon was futilely hoping to take home with him after this affair ended), Illya was approached by Miranda Denault. She had him cornered, and when she brushed up against him he felt something drop into his trouser pocket.

"Mr. Kuryakin, I know who you are, and what you're doing here. You now have possession of the one thing that can save me from THRUSH. I hope you won't disappoint me."

Illya was taken aback slightly, although his expression did not betray him. This changed everything, and just maybe it opened a door.


	8. Chapter 8

Napoleon was at the center of a lively conversation when he spotted his partner being cornered by Miranda Denault. With all of the grace of a ballet dancer, he managed to pirouette his way from the admiring females who had surrounded him and begin a slow, deliberate journey to the end of the long room.

As Illya stood spellbound by curiosity at the object Miranda had dropped into his pocket, she was raising his glasses to just above the eyebrows that arched suddenly in response to the invasion.

"Ah, I see someone paid you a visit, Mr. Kuryakin. Trust me when I tell you that they aren't with me, and that all I want is the money that will come from this deal. Ian Parker is a rogue among THRUSH agents.'

Miranda saw the recognition of Parker's name in the one blue eye that wasn't swollen and bruised. Illya's heartbeat increased as he was reminded once again of the detestable Englishman.

"Yes, I see that you do know Ian. He's dangerous, Mr. Kuryakin, something that I recognize in your bruised features. He doesn't want to own racehorses; he wants to take over THRUSH's interests in New York. I came into this unaware of the danger, but he is at the core of it."

Illya regarded the blonde woman with a practiced glare. He didn't trust anyone who would do business with THRUSH.

"Ahem… Is this a private party or can anyone come in?"

Napoleon came to stand behind Miranda and put his hand on her back in a familiar way. She didn't flinch, but as she turned to look at the suave host, Illya fingered the item Miranda had dropped into his pocked; he recognized the shape of a key.

"Mr. Pike, Miss Denault was just telling me secrets. Perhaps she would like to share them with you as well."

Napoleon flashed a smile that could have provided light for a room suddenly plunged into darkness. Miranda recognized his role in this charade now, understood that there would be no turning back once she let these two men take possession of the one thing that was keeping her alive.

"I think perhaps we might have more privacy in my…"

Miranda shook her head, causing one of the perfectly coiffed curls to bounce out of place and fall across her eye. The effect was the type of thing Napoleon lived for, and he subdued the urge to push it away and… what? Kiss her? This woman was more his type than he cared to admit.

"No, not here. I have those two men as escorts and, well… they wouldn't like it if I snuck off with you."

The smile she gave Napoleon was almost enough to make him reach for a cigarette, his mind raced with images.

"Where do you suggest… Miranda. May I call you Miranda?"

She smiled again, and this time it reached up to her hairline.

"I believe you just did… Worthington. Are you certain you want me to call you that? You don't look like a Worthington, and something tells me that you probably aren't. You're UNCLE, just like Mr. Kuryakin is."

Illya frowned, his curiosity over the key in his pocket now replaced by irritation that his cover had been so easily, and quickly, blown.

"What makes you think I am with this UNCLE? Why…?"

Miranda chuckled demurely, amused at how silly men could be, and how easily they were manipulated.

"I didn't know for certain until you told Mr., mmm… you told Worthington…'

She paused for effect, and was rewarded with an icy glare.

"You invited him to join us in our conversation. I _suspected_ you were UNCLE, but until you did that I wasn't positive."

Napoleon looked at his partner, hating that the young Russian would berate himself for the misstep for days, possibly weeks. If they failed, well, it might go on indefinitely.

"Okay, so Miranda, now that we've gotten the introductions out of the way…'

The blonde pursed her lips slightly, a tisking sound emanating from somewhere behind the full, slightly crooked smile…

"That is to say, we are UNCLE, and you are THRUSH. Introductions, as I was saying, have cleared the way for the next step. Would you care to enlighten us on that?"

Illya shifted a little, his unease with the situation clearly fighting with the need to remain unflustered by this little faux pas.

"Miranda has given me a key. I believe she was about to tell me what it belongs to. That is what you were intending, was it not?"

The glare was present, but of course it was completely lost behind the dark lenses. Illya glared anyway, his displeasure over this situation mandated it.

Miranda demurred slightly from the question, raising an eyebrow as she turned to Napoleon. She knew he was the one to deal with; the Russian was too _uptight_, a phrase she had only recently heard while visiting a jazz club in Soho.

One of Miranda's escorts materialized from the crowd in the center of the room. Very quickly she said "It's been grand", and with a smoldering kiss that left Napoleon not caring if he was sporting red lipstick, she turned and left.

Miranda's escorts received her, each man holding out an arm for her to take, and they made their way to the front door where the butler had her stole ready. She slipped into the fur and turned once more to wink at the two UNCLE agents… twice.

"Do you think that was a signal, tovarisch?"

Illya's terse reply couldn't hide his distaste for the woman.

"At least she can count. I suppose that means we are to meet her at two o'clock at Grand Central Station."

Napoleon smiled, the feel of Miranda's lips on his still lingered as he reached into his pocket to retrieve a handkerchief.

"Yep, that's the message I got. So, you have a key and we have a destination. I wonder what she'll have for us tomorrow?"

Illya shuddered involuntarily. His ribs were aching again; the pain medication he had taken earlier was definitely wearing off. His blackened eye was also complaining beneath the dark glasses, and he groaned audibly as a new hoard of curious would-be investors assaulted the pair of men that stood like models beside the handsome Eames chair.

By the end of the evening each member of the UNCLE team had done a job; the result of both cleaning, and sweeping the house for bugs had insured that the Long Island abode of Worthington Pike was safe and secure.

Illya decided to stay the night rather than make the drive back to the farm. Sturgess had left Illya the keys to the Jag when he left earlier in the evening with a very attractive woman dressed in a gown by Oleg Cassini. In a brief flashback to his days in Paris, the Russian agent had been surrounded, in his imagination, with silk dresses and razor thin women. Illya wondered about things sometimes…

"How about a nightcap."

Napoleon was pouring as he spoke. Of course Illya would want something to drink.

"Yes, thank you. Bourbon?"

Napoleon smiled, no vodka tonight meant the Russian wanted to sleep, not talk.

"Do you have some medications with you? You don't look so hot."

The glasses had come off and now, at the end of this long evening, Illya's face could be examined in full. The bruising looked painful to Napoleon, and he knew from experience that it truly was. The very thin blond half of this UNCLE partnership looked like the end of a long trip on a very rough road, and now the older agent wondered if Illya really would be able to ride on Sunday. The way he slumped down into the leather sofa elicited groans that were impossible to disguise.

"Illya?"

"I will be… I am fine.'

He scowled at his partner, hating to be the one injured and under watch.

"Napoleon, please do not be a … hmmm… mère poule. Clucking over me and fretting."

"Mère poule… I don't think I've ever been called that before. For some reason it sounds more like dinner in French than it does English."

The Russian rolled his eyes. He needed to sleep, and this bourbon and a pain pill would do the job nicely.

"What do you make of Miranda Denault's little game? We go to the station tomorrow and find the box that this key obviously belongs to, and then what? How can this possibly be something that will help her? Am I just too tired to figure this out, or is she slightly demented? I don't trust the woman."

That last disclosure of distrust was spoken with a growl.

Napoleon chuckled, a glimmer of that kiss still sending out sparks that would go untended tonight. Maybe after this affair was over…

"Oh, well… I don't know, Illya. I guess we'll just have to wait and see.'

A sigh escaped from Napoleon as he determined to help put his friend out of his misery.

"I think bed is what the doctor would prescribe for you, my friend. If you expect to ride on Sunday, you're going to need as much rest as possible. I think you can sleep in tomorrow… well, today actually."

Napoleon hadn't looked at his watch for quite a while, and now he realized it was nearing two o'clock in the morning. Twelve hours from now they would get some answers.

Napoleon wondered what those answers would be as he entertained a few more moments of reliving that kiss.


	9. Chapter 9

After sleeping in a little later than normal, Illya was up looking for coffee by eight o'clock. His years in Paris had given him an appreciation for caffeine delivered via a French press machine, and he had spotted one in Napoleon's kitchen the evening before.

As for Napoleon, he had already been on the phone with Mr. Waverly by the time the Russian was pouring his first cup and searching for something to eat.

"Napoleon, do you have anything in here besides high calorie, fattening foods? I need something with protein and I neglected to bring along one of the shakes."

Napoleon grinned, and it was an intolerable expression to Illya, considering how hungry he was and how smug his friend looked as he raised a cinnamon roll to his lips.

"Sorry. I do have some eggs in the fridge, and tomatoes that were brought in by the caterers last night. I think they used them on something…'

That sent Illya into the depths of the refrigerator, causing Napoleon to stop in mid-sentence to watch the scavenger like actions.

"Uh… umm… anyway… tovarsich, are you going to eat that?"

Illya had pulled out a tomato and two eggs along with the butter.

"Yes. Why are you looking like that?"

"I guess it just never occurred to me to mix the two, that's all."

Illya started his preparation, cracking the eggs and whipping them up with a fork. The tomato he washed and sliced, making certain that each segment was a little more than a half an inch thick.

"Where are your pots and pans…?'

Napoleon pointed, still wondering what this would taste like.

"Oh, thank you."

A small sauté pan was selected, and a burner lit beneath it. Illya cut a pat of butter and flipped it in, the sizzle telling him that it was just right. Onto that he placed his tomato slices.

The determined and hungry Russian located another small pan, repeated the butter and whisked his eggs again, adding a little water to them. This he poured into the butter and began to fold it into itself, rotating the pan so that the egg kept filling the outside.

Illya checked the tomato and flipped them, approving of the bubbling brown he had produced. Back to the eggs and then, to Napoleon's surprise, Illya placed the tomato slices on top of half of the eggs that were now recognizably an omelette, folded it over and slid the creation onto a plate.

"What, no cheese?"

Napoleon liked cheese, and an omelette without one was, well… he didn't think it would be very good.

"No cheese, just salt and pepper. Would you like to try it?"

It was a large enough portion to share just a bite, but no more. Illya was hungry and he needed all of this meal.

"No, just eat it. I'll fix something for myself. With Cheese."

Illya didn't rest on ceremony, but dug into his breakfast with relish. The caramelized flavor of the tomato was a nice contrast to the buttery eggs. At least he was learning to cook.

The morning proceeded, and the men each took showers and dressed for the day. The phone conference with Waverly had been illuminating for Napoleon, and he relayed the information now to his partner as they prepared for their meeting in New York City's Grand Central Station. Miranda Denault had assured them that questions would be answered by what was retrieved from the locker she was letting them into. Whether or not she would actually show up was still a question mark, and the information Napoleon had collected earlier made the blonde even more interesting than before.

Over yet another cup of coffee, the details of the early morning conversation were relayed.

"Mr. Waverly has run across some additional information about our Miss Denault."

Illya rolled his eyes and shook his head.

"She is not _my_ Miss Denault, I giver her entirely over to you."

Napoleon was fine with that.

"I'll do whatever it takes to complete the mission… successfully."

He winked as he said that, and Illya saw again the effect the THRUSH woman had on his partner. Dangerous liaisons loomed ahead, he was certain of it.

"Well, just get on with this… What is new and how does it affect us?"

"First of all…'

The American intoned his amusement and smiled.

"Miranda Denault is not her real name. Waverly doesn't know for sure what it is, but apparently this identity belongs to someone who, had she lived, would be approximately seventy-three years old. Some old family that no has heard from for decades has provided this alias for our _joli petit oiseau."_

Illya made a face at the reference to a pretty bird.

"What type of accent is that?"

It wasn't the first time the upstart from the Ukraine had suggested that his friend's French lacked something, nor would it be the last. Whether he did it to goad Napoleon or was genuinely affronted by the Quebecoise accent, the dark eyes always responded with a touch of ire.

"Can we stay on the subject at hand, please? Now…'

Illya glared at his superior.

"Miss Denault, or whatever her name is, was apparently lured into THRUSH with the promise of attaining wealth and status without actually working for a living. She is well connected, and those two men from last night…'

He looked to Illya for a response, at which the blond nodded.

"… Those two guys are directly linked to one of the top men in France."

"Victor Marton."

Napoleon did a double take. How did Illya know that?

"How do you know that?"

The Russian tilted his head slightly, sort of like a dog does when he hears something and is trying to sort out what it is…

"I was stationed in Europe before coming here, you know that. Of course I know about Victor Marton. Everyone does."

Napoleon's brow creased as he drew his eyebrows into a scowl.

"All right, you're such a smart Russian, what do you think these two are up to then? She, Miranda… whatever…. She and Marton must be working together. And that business about the key holding her future… I don't believe any of it. They're setting us up, and it has something to do with the race. It must."

Now it was Illya's turn to knit his brow into a frown. The race, the farm, the horse… THRUSH. Ian Parker.

"Ian Parker. It's all about Parker. This entire set up has been to lure him out into the open, the same way that Waverly's plan was supposed to work. Both UNCLE and THRUSH want him, and this racing business is how they both decided to do it. Only now he isn't going to cooperate because…'

"Because he recognized you and now he knows. And if he knows UNCLE is involved, then…"

"Then Ian probably has already figured out that THRUSH is equally interested and involved in it."

The two agents were suddenly deflated, in spite of having figured out the hidden details of the THRUSH deception. Illya slumped back into the leather, once more relishing the comfort even as he silently cursed Parker for escaping once again.

"So, now what do we do? What's the point of the race if Parker is out of the picture? It is not likely that he will re-enter for any reason. Is it?"

Napoleon was looking as though perhaps there might actually be a reason, and it was a thought that required an alliance. A not altogether unpleasant alliance.

It was several hours later when the UNCLE men found a spot ideal for waiting; they could see the entire station from where they stood. The plan Napoleon had in mind would depend on Miranda Denault. Regardless of her name, the woman was essential to the scheme and, admittedly, a desirable aspect of it for the smitten American.

Illya disagreed, and would rather have been able to proceed without the woman, his instinctive dislike of her somehow a deepening and visceral response to someone he had only met once. The young agent had learned to respect that instinct, though, and the thought of being in league with her was distasteful, on many levels.

"I don't trust her, and I doubt that she will meet us here as promised. One cannot trust…"

As though on cue, Miranda appeared from among a crowd of travelers, dodging wayward suitcases with an elegant ease that made Napoleon's attraction to the woman intensify as she navigated with a swing of her hips and a swishing motion that was hypnotizing to the man watching.

"I think …"

Illya snorted, a derisive response in tow.

"No, you do not.'

He watched as the lithe blonde approached, hissing under his breath.

"O most pernicious woman!"

Napoleon turned to look at his grumpy partner.

"That's a little extreme, don't you think. Here she is, now be quiet.'

The agent was smiling as Miranda reached the men, a smile coyly appearing, slightly crooked and entirely sure of its effect.

"Mr. Kuryakin, Mister… Are we still going to play this little game, or shall I simply call you Napoleon?"

Illya snickered as Napoleon blushed slightly. He was no schoolboy, why was he so affected by this woman?

"And what shall we call you? We know that Miranda Denault is an alias, so perhaps you might fill us in. I mean, since we're being honest with one another."

She hesitated at that, unsure exactly how to proceed. It wasn't often that a man got the upper hand with this THRUSH operative. When Victor Marton had approached her about this little ruse, she was only too willing to go along. After all, she had her own reasons for wanting Ian Parker to face the music, so to speak. No man treated her the way Ian had and lived to tell about it.

Miranda looked up at Napoleon with a coquettish expression, willing him to climb into her web.


	10. Chapter 10

Illya was growing impatient and, in a motion intended to convey his dissatisfaction with the exchange between Napoleon and whoever this woman was, he thrust his hand into his trousers pocket and produced the key. The key was the reason they had all come to Grand Central, and now the locker required their attention.

"Do you think we might get on with it, or do you two intend to stand here all afternoon staring at each other?"

The abruptness of Illya's comment made Napoleon smile, something mirrored in the woman's expression as well. They understood each other, and it was both satisfying and unsettling to the American. He wasn't supposed to be this attracted to the opposition, and he was definitely attracted to this one.

"Hold your horses, Illya. Oh, pardon the racetrack humor. But really, this is a big moment; we might as well savor every second."

Miranda gave Napoleon a sidelong glance as she pushed back her hair.

'Too blonde…' thought Illya. What Napoleon saw in her was a mystery to the young Russian. He preferred his women to be…ummm… trustworthy. An admirable quality.

"You are a dour thing, aren't you? I don't suppose you ever do anything strictly for fun, do you."

She had at first thought Kuryakin to be attractive, if a little thin, but upon meeting Solo she had quickly dismissed the younger man. A sophisticated man with a sense of adventure was much more to her liking, and Napoleon seemed to be adventurous to a fault. Perhaps something that might be played to an advantage.

The trio approached the row of lockers and stopped momentarily, checking the numbers until Napoleon spotted the one matching their key.

"Here it is. Illya, give me the key."

Solo's partner handed him the key and then stepped back so that he was standing behind the other two. Better to not be in a position that might be less than advantageous.

There was, seemingly, a lot riding on this discovery. 'Miranda' had indicated that she had a personal stake in the contents, almost a life and death type of interest. As Napoleon inserted the key, each person had a wave of anticipation, but only one could say with confidence that it would change everything.

So intense was their concentration that none of them sensed the approach of four men, three of whom held guns in their hands. Illya was the first to feel the muzzle of a gun in his back, a most unwelcome sensation considering who probably held it.

Ian Parker tapped Napoleon on the shoulder, a grin sliding across his face as reality dawned on his three new captives. He had every intention of flaunting this coup to both THRUSH and UNCLE, and enjoying it to the fullest. How did either organization think to control him? It was ludicrous, and now he had the contents of the locker as well as…

"Hello my love. I've missed you terribly…'

He puckered his lips in a faux kiss, causing the blonde to sneer at him.

"Ah, I see you've missed me as well. And you have new friends, I see. Perhaps you would introduce me to this one."

Parker pointed to Napoleon, producing another sneer from the dark haired American. Ian turned to face Illya and was met with an icy glare that gave him just a momentary pause.

"This one I know already. Sorry about that business on the road, old man. You know how it is, though, trying to keep a house in order. You've rather rocked things with this latest gambit, I will admit. I never took you for a horseman, Kuryakin. I'm afraid you'll never get a chance to ride in that race, not that I care who wins. It just won't be you."

Napoleon suddenly had the uneasy feeling that there was more to this story than Illya had told him. If Parker wasn't interested in the race, then why the attack on the Russian? And what was the story behind him and … _Miranda_? And what was her real name, anyway?

There were more questions than usual for an affair of this nature. This one seemed more personal than the usual _Save the World_ scenario, and it left the agent wondering just what they'd gotten themselves into.

As the two UNCLE agents and the woman backed away from the locker, Ian Parker turned the key and opened the door to the locker. He paused a moment, as though to savor it or, perhaps, wondering if it was all worth the trouble he'd gone to in procuring it.

One of Parker's men had a strong grip on Illya, while Napoleon and Miranda were standing side by side between the other two henchmen. The only means of escape would be to overpower them while Parker was cleaning out the locker. In a moment of inspired abandon, Napoleon sank to the floor, allowing Illya a split second to take advantage of the lapse in his guard's attention. It would have worked, too, but when Napoleon looked up just before he intended to pounce on one of the other guards, Miranda was standing over him with a gun in her hand.

Napoleon stopped, Illya was quickly grasped yet again by the strong-armed thug who held him a little more closely now.

"Just whose side are you on, anyway?"

Napoleon threw the question at the woman, his expression sour now as his arm was turned backwards and behind him.

Parker spoke up, the smirk on his face an answer that would stay with Illya for years.

"She's on her own side, gentlemen, something you'd do well to remember. Am I right, pet?"

The blonde vixen smiled, and the crooked expression became emblazoned like a branding iron on Napoleon's mind. He wanted her more now than ever, and he knew it was a form of insanity that he'd just have to learn to live with. As for Illya, that smile would serve as a warning for the future: _This woman was dangerous, avoid her at all costs._

Parker reached into the locker, but neither agent saw what he brought out of it. With his back turned to them, the contents were still a mystery, and now they were at risk of never knowing what it was. Illya felt his ribs beginning to ache as the morning's pain medication began to wear thin. Napoleon noted the look of fatigue on his partner's face, and the equally exuberant expression on the woman he knew as Miranda. She locked arms with Ian Parker just as the three grunts that had accompanied him into the station now formed a wall behind Illya and Napoleon. There seemed to not be a good way out of this at present, but he didn't intend to go without a ruckus of some sort.

Illya spotted a group of men standing near where they were going to pass, and remembering others like them from his youth, he had an idea that seemed worth trying.

Illya caught Napoleon's eye and subtly motioned with his chin towards the ticket counter they were going to pass. Napoleon nodded with a slight move of his head. At the moment they were passing by the counter, Napoleon slumped down, causing the guard who held his right arm to falter slightly as he tried to retrieve the limp man. Illya likewise sank to the floor as he yelled something in Yiddish.

"Tʼán nyt lʼázn zyy nʻmʻn myr ẕw dy lʼgʻrn wwydʻr!"

Several men who were close by heard it and turned to the group of people from whence that phrase had come. They saw the thin blond fall to the floor, his face bruised and his body nearly emaciated. Instantly they were upon the four men who were escorting the UNCLE agents. In the impromptu melee Miranda was able to grab the envelope from Parker as he was manhandled by the angry group of Hasidic Jews.

Illya shouted his thanks to the men who had broken up their kidnapping as he and Napoleon sprinted after the blonde. Leaving Parker and his men in the hands of the black-coated, spontaneous activists was a little risky, and Illya sincerely hoped that there wouldn't be any real violence.

Napoleon wondered about the scuttle.

"What did you say to those men? And, what language was that?"

Illya squinted as he surveyed the expanse of the station, disappointed that the woman had disappeared completely.

'It was Yiddish, and I said 'don't let them take me to the camps again'. The Ukraine is home to many Hasidic Jews, and of course my plea for help… well, you can imagine the impact."

Napoleon understood, and wondered why that particular phrase had come to his friend's mind.

"Okay, that does make sense. I suppose we ought to get back in there and see about Parker. I have an idea UNCLE will seem like a safe haven after all of that."

Illya and Napoleon turned to head back towards the near riot that had been instigated by the Russian's pleading outburst. A crowd had formed around the men who circled Ian Parker and his bullies. Illya spoke to the men who had rescued him and Napoleon, thanking them for their intervention. All of it reminded him of a life he had left behind, of people and places… It did not pay to dwell on things in the past.

Napoleon called for back up as Illya was dispersing the crowd of onlookers. He managed to keep Parker and his buddies linked to one another by utilizing his and Napoleon's cufflinks; one cuff on each wrist until he had them in a circle.

"Solo out."

Illya nodded to the four would be villains.

"Help is on the way?"

Napoleon looked at his partner's handiwork, amused at how ridiculous Parker and his companions looked, sort of like little girls playing ring around the rosy.

"Cute. You do nice work, tovarisch. And yes, help is on the way. I just wish we could have caught up with … Miranda. I wonder who she is, and what's in that envelope?"

Illya thought he felt a cold chill run up his spine. There was something ineffably disturbing in his response to that woman.

"I believe we will need to continue on with our original plan, and see what transpires on Sunday after the race. She did, after all, leave you a check for her investment, did she not?"

Napoleon couldn't help but smile. She had, indeed, cleverly slipped a check into his pocket while she was planting that kiss on his lips.

"Yes, a woman after my own heart…'

He saw Illya's disapproving expression.

"But I will try to contain myself. Scout's honor."

His three-finger salute did little to assuage the Russian's concerns about his partner and the mysterious woman.

"Sunday then, at the races. At least I know what I am doing when I get there."

Napoleon smiled, too big a smile for Illya's comfort.

"And I know what I'm _looking for_ when I get there. A trim, blonde filly who likes to play with birds."

The Russian hissed his disapproval.

"Be careful my friend, that woman is dangerous."

Napoleon was still smiling.


	11. Chapter 11

The confrontation with Parker occurred on Thursday, and it was the last time anyone saw the mysterious Miranda Denault. Napoleon was attempting to not be obsessed with her, and reverted to his normally cool affectation when questioned by Illya about it. Luckily for Napoleon he didn't have to spend much time with his partner; the erstwhile agent was playing the role of jockey again, and had spent the past two days working out on Dawn's Tomorrow in anticipation of his ride on Sunday.

Napoleon worried a little about Illya's future aboard the big grey. Thoroughbred races could be dangerous, and with a broken rib and, being honest about it, the lack of real experience, there was a chance that Kuryakin could get seriously injured.

Both men had been wracking their brains for some type of explanation as to why the race was of such importance to THRUSH, and to Ian Parker. That criminal had already admitted that he would be watching the results, and had obviously wanted Illya out of it. Napoleon still suspected that there was something personal in that ill will, but his friend wasn't giving any explanations. It was to be hoped that if it could affect this assignment then the details would be forthcoming. One could hope.

Illya had spent three days aboard his horse, and he felt confident that the race would come off without a hitch; at least from the standpoint of the horse and the rider. Whatever else he encountered was beyond his control.

Alexander Waverly had spoken daily with Sturgess Harewood, getting updates and appraisals on his man. The business with Parker was troubling, mainly because it was impossible to pinpoint the importance being attached to this race. Now, with Illya very nearly in the starting gate, there was still no sign of the Denault woman, and Parker wouldn't talk in spite of several truth serums and a parade of interrogators. The man was good at his subterfuge, and Waverly silently cursed him for it.

Angelique LeChien was in the private box of a very wealthy man whose own horse was running in the eighth race alongside Dawn's Tomorrow. This Fall meet at Syracuse had all the makings of a classically endowed event, with wealthy socialites and Broadway actors and actresses, all of them sporting the latest fashions and doing their own type of jockeying as the press sought out the most recognizable faces.

Angelique adored this type of environment. She herself was targeted once or twice, demurred politely from the offer to have her photograph taken, saying she was simply there for the horses. In truth, she was there for one horse in particular. Although she had put money into the syndicate backing Dawn's Tomorrow, the horse she was here to see race was a big bay gelding named Bird of Prey. It was so obvious that she wondered UNCLE hadn't spotted it for what it was: a THRUSH entry into the world of horseracing. Those men had been so focused on her and luring her into their little plan that they had completely missed the real focus of today's event.

Ian Parker had wanted in on this one as well, and sabotaging the UNCLE entry by trying to eliminate Kuryakin had been an effort to increase the odds in Bird of Prey's favor. It was completely coincidental that the two men knew each other, in spite of whatever might have been concocted as a grudge match. Parker merely wanted to get rich, and gaining control of the THRUSH horse was just one more step up in his efforts to topple his former associates and take over their spot in this new venture. He didn't intend to invest in their horse, he would simply take it from them.

As Angelique surveyed the crowd with her binoculars, Napoleon Solo walked up to her and as sweetly as he could, whispered an endearment that she immediately decided to accept.

"Mr. Solo, you must think very highly of yourself to assume I would be so easily persuaded."

Her crooked smile was charming in a way that Solo could not define, but he found it nearly irresistible. No, it was completely irresistible.

He managed to flash a smile that almost put her off her considerable guard.

"Perhaps I just think very highly of you, and only hope that you can be persuaded."

That pleased Angelique. '_An UNCLE agent_' she thought, '_of all the ridiculous things that could happen to a girl'._

"Darling, we may have to break a few rules, you and I. Now, what about that unpleasant partner of yours, do you really intend to let him ride in this race? There are still dangers out there, even if you do have Parker behind bars."

Napoleon wondered what else was involved here, why this woman was here in the wide open, as though she had nothing to fear. He could easily have taken her in and been done with this affair.

"Now, why are all of you so interested in horse racing? I've been thinking about this for days, and I still can't figure it out. I was hoping that you might help me out, since we're so… hmmm… Simpatico."

Angelique laughed at that, the charm of the man was ridiculously inviting. She debated telling him the whole scheme. It wasn't as though he could do anything about it now. That race was almost ready to begin.

Illya and Tom were with their trainer, Josh Montagna, and Sturgess Harewood. Even though Napoleon was listed as the owner, it was not necessary for him to be here; he wouldn't have been of any particular use at this point. Another Section II agent named Skip Daniels was serving as an outrider for this race. Everyone had decided safety was not to be overlooked, down to surrounding Illya as much as possible with back up out on the track.

Tom was calm for his race day, and Illya was decked out in the red and white silks of Harewood Farms. That hadn't changed with the sale, and everyone conjectured that this was a new partnership being forged between Worthington Pike and Harewood Farms. The syndicate had added to the speculation about the future of Sturgess' racing plans.

As Illya mounted up, he noticed a face in the crowd of people around another horse. The handsome bay named Bird of Prey had an entourage that included Victor Marton! Why hadn't anyone noticed that name before now? Illya looked around in vain, searching for some sign of his partner. Even though they had agreed that Napoleon would head up to the stands, Illya now wished fervently that his friend might have had a change of mind and stayed close to the action down in the paddock area.

Illya kept his eyes on Bird of Prey, trying to remember the name of the jockey. Evan Dubois. Damn, that was the horse everyone was betting on, not Dawn's Tomorrow. He was just in the way, something that was reflected in the odds: Tom was running at 2:1 odds, and Bird of Prey was farther back at 5:1. Dawn's Tomorrow was the favorite in this stakes race, and as such had been targeted by this THRUSH effort to move into the legitimate racing business.

Marton was standing at the edge of the paddock area, watching his horse parade past as he held up his hand in a wave to Dubois, the jockey. As Illya neared the THRUSH Frenchman, he attempted to remain calm even as his heart was racing. Marton caught his eye and winked. It was threatening for all of the seeming friendliness, but Illya knew what that meant, and he steeled himself for the race ahead.

Napoleon and Angelique had moved to Sturgess' box and were awaiting the announcement of the parade of horses. The crowd cheered as the track began to fill with thoroughbreds, their riders all dressed in the various colors of their owners. After parading in front of the grandstand the horses headed back to the starting gate, where Dawn's Tomorrow was guided into the number one position, right on the rail. Illya contemplated the difficulties he might encounter in this position, especially with Bird of Prey situated immediately to his right in the number two slot.

Tom went into his gate easily and it was locked behind him. Bird of Prey was a little more agitated and reared up once before being handled with a firm touch and similarly guided into his space. The rest of the horses went in without incident and the final gate was closed behind the number nine horse.

Within seconds the alarm went off and the announcer was heard above…

"Aaaaannndddd…. They're off!"

Victor Marton had assumed his spot in the box where Napoleon had found Angelique. Upon seeing the THRUSH chief, a sudden realization hit the agent and his eyes began to search for the grey horse and his friend. Agitated, he placed a hand on his companion's arm, causing her to flinch slightly.

"Tell me now, what is your real name?"

Her eyes widened, then she lowered her lids…

"Angelique. Angelique LeChien. We have our own horse, darling. Watch, you'll see."

Napoleon allowed himself a few seconds to digest the name, to make note of how it was perfect for this woman. And then, with some anxiety lurking behind the smile, he looked down onto the track.

Illya was hunched over his mount, his position textbook as he rode with a perfect rhythm that defied his lack of real experience. The exhilaration was undeniable, and had he let himself think about it the blond would have surmised that he did indeed thrive on the excitement of his work, and the danger of assignments such as this one.

But he didn't allow it, instead keeping his senses and sights on the horses around him. Illya felt more than saw peripherally that Bird of Prey was coming up on his right. What he couldn't see was the whip in Dubois' left hand that he struck out with, not hitting his own horse but lashing it across Illya's right arm.

The stricken rider was stunned by the unseen assault, and he felt the sting of air as it reached through the cloth of his shirt and into freshly cut flesh. It wasn't a regulation whip that Dubois carried, but something created by THRUSH for this very occasion. Marton had no intention of losing, especially not to a horse ridden by an upstart UNCLE agent..

Illya dug in, urging his horse to go faster. This race couldn't depend on the grey's usual tactic, not with Bird of Prey chasing them. If Illya didn't keep his horse out in front then something bad would certainly happen to them both.

Napoleon and Angelique were sharing the binoculars as the horses rounded the quarter mile turn. The blonde THRUSH agent thought she saw Dubois use a whip on Kuryakin, and she had a sudden twinge of regret that the blond might be injured in this mad race.

Napoleon was trying to keep up with the changing places, but the distance made it difficult. Illya seemed to be in the lead, but there was another grey horse in the race and that one was dead last.

Dawn's Tomorrow was running like the champion he was. With the sound and sensation of the other horses the big grey was catapulted into high gear. Illya felt as though he might fly out of the saddle at any moment, but he was steadfastly hanging on, both hands on the reins with his whip in the right one. He didn't dare jeopardize Tom's future by breaking any rules, but Dubois was a nuisance and a dangerous one at that. As the horses were nearing the half-mile mark, the Frenchman made another attempt to thwart the UNCLE agent and his horse.

Napoleon had the binoculars now as the horses ran on the backstretch. He saw Illya clearly, in the lead but working hard at keeping ahead of the THRUSH entry. As he watched, he was horrified to see the jockey aboard Bird of Prey pull alongside Dawn's Tomorrow and extend his hand towards Illya, leaning slightly and plunging something into the Russian's back.

Illya was concentrating on the race, trying to keep an image of where Bird of Prey was on his right. The horses were tightly grouped as they ran down the backstretch with five of the nine close enough to make a race out of it. The UNCLE agent knew that Dubois was close to them again, and as he yelled at Tom to quicken his pace he felt a searing pain in his right side, almost toppling from his position when the blade of a knife was withdrawn and tossed into the infield.

It was all he could to keep from losing his seat, but Illya kept on, kept urging his horse onward. The finish line was less than a quarter of a mile ahead and as the horses rounded the last turn it was as though Dawn's Tomorrow had a new surge of energy that was now propelling him ahead of the other horses. Only Bird of Prey was keeping pace with him, and without any other means of attacking Illya, Dubois was left with the challenge of simply riding for the victory.

Angelique had one eye on the race and the other on Victor Marton. She had gotten into this with Victor because she was privy to an unsavory event in the man's life, something for which she had documentation; something that went even beyond what was acceptable to THRUSH. That was what had been in the locker, and when Parker had managed to get his hands on it the clever blonde had no other choice than to join his team. Luckily she was able to abscond with the documents and leave the others behind.

Now, standing here and watching this race play out, Angelique knew that her position was secure no matter who won the race. She found herself hoping, perhaps foolishly, that Napoleon's side would win against Marton's. Either way, she had a stake in Dawn's Tomorrow and a career with THRUSH.

Illya was fighting to remain conscious aboard Dawn's Tomorrow. The gallant horse pulled ahead, almost as though he sensed the danger of being within range of Bird of Prey. Dirt was flying from beneath his hooves as Tom widened his lead; not even the vengeful bay with the menacing emblem on his jockey's silks could keep up with the brave grey warrior. No longer merely a race, Tom's DNA reached into his ancient past and produced the heart and determination of a conquerer. With a final burst of speed the big grey shot forward and crossed the finish line a full ten lengths ahead of the THRUSH horse that crossed seconds later, just ahead of the others.

Napoleon was already on his way to the winner's circle with Angelique in tow. She had cast a flirtatious look at Marton as she passed the scowling Frenchman. How he hated to lose, and how he now hated that Russian UNCLE agent.

Dawn's Tomorrow could tell something was wrong with his rider, and so could Skip as he came out on his own horse to catch up to the winners. Illya was barely hanging on now, his silk drenched in blood from the wound inflicted by Dubois. That Frenchman had his own troubles as Marton dispatched two men to deal with the unsuccessful jockey. There was no room for the Win, Place and Show of racing. To Marton there was only the win.

As Skip came up beside Tom and Illya, he was able to steady the Russian, keeping him upright in the saddle until they could get him on the ground. Napoleon was waiting for them as they rode up, and he could see that Illya was a paler shade of white than normal. Angelique, for her part, had some remorse for the damage to the young agent, although his disagreeable nature made her less inclined to actual sympathy.

"Skip, help me get him down…"

Illya glared at his friend and then at Skip.

"Nyet. I am perfectly capable…"

But he wasn't. He fell rather unceremoniously out of the saddle and into the waiting arms of the other two agents who lowered him to the ground amid whispers from the gallery of people behind them.

"It's okay folks, he was riding with a terrible case of the flu. He did a fine job, though, didn't he."

Napoleon schmoozed the crowd, smiling and congratulating them for their wise investment. They all cooed and sent comforting words for the jockey's recovery, never noticing that most of the red in his jockey silks was from the blood.

Skip helped Illya to stand a little straighter and then walked him back to the dressing area to check him out. Although there had been significant blood loss, nothing vital had been hit. Dubois' aim was a little off, surely an indication of more to come for the unfortunate man.

Skip helped get some bandaging around the Russian's torso after cleaning the wound. He also had a pill to dispense, a little something from the labs intended to help a wounded agent bounce back. Illya dressed, glad to be in jeans and a turtleneck rather than the silky shirt and trousers he'd deposited in a trash bin. He was fine, always fine, plus he was hungry.

Napoleon wrapped an arm around Angelique's waist as he left the winner's circle, his charm now winding down from its performance in that rare spot. He knew this charade was over, and that there was a reckoning in order concerning Angelique. And to think, all of it had been because THRUSH had their own horse…

"Napoleon darling, you know we can't walk out of here together. I have my people, you have yours…"

Her lopsided grin made Napoleon's stomach flip. Between the danger and the possibilities lay an exciting _what if_.

"You, my love, have made my life suddenly very complicated. But, you're right. I need to see about my partner…'

He noted the hint of a scowl and smiled in return.

"… and you had better tend to Mr. Marton. He didn't look any too pleased. Would I be correct if I were to guess that whatever is in that envelope has something to do with that rascal of a Frenchman?"

Angelique admired a man with a quick mind, among other things.

"You, my dear UNCLE agent, are a very clever man. I don't think you need to know exactly what is in there, but rest assured it will keep me safe for a very long time. I hope I can expect to receive my due financial reward for the investment I made in Dawn's Tomorrow. UNCLE is good on its word, I trust."

Now Napoleon had to smile. As much as he really did like Angelique, something about what he had to tell her was strangely satisfying.

"Well, my dear little THRUSH agent, you wrote that check and signed it Miranda Denault. As far as UNCLE is concerned that is a person who is long dead and therefore unable to invest in our horse. I'm afraid you've outsmarted yourself… darling."

Angelique pouted a little at that. Oh well, easy come…

"Very well, Napoleon. Just don't expect me to like it. Until the next time…?"

Napoleon brought her closer and kissed her, leaving her gasping slightly and sorry, just a little, that she had to leave.

"Au revoir, darling."

With that the two parted, Angelique angling off towards where Victor Marton's car was waiting, and Napoleon to find his partner.

Illya was waiting in a parking lot set aside for the jockeys and other track personnel. Napoleon found him sitting in Harewood's red Jag.

"Wow, don't tell me you get to keep it."

Napoleon was suitably impressed by the sight of his friend in the beautiful car, but he wondered about the why of it.

"No, not keep it, but Sturgess has lent it to me for the ride home. He says he'll have someone pick it up eventually. I believe he left with someone he met, an actress or a model. I don't recall."

Napoleon wondered how it was that a man could not pay attention to whether a woman was an actress or a model. Being Russian must take its toll at times.

"I am hungry, Napoleon. We are going to eat."

"Ah, of course. I bet you are hungry, and I'll be glad when you gain some of the weight back. And, please, put your hair back where it belongs, this has been very unsettling for me seeing you in this…"

Illya smiled.

"You like my hair? Napoleon, I never knew."

A smirk landed on the American's face, but he had to laugh.

"Just start the engine, you Bolshevik."

And Illya did start that engine, taking off like a driver on the Autobahn. But, that's another story.


End file.
